


Legacy

by lazilicious



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, LOOKING RIGHT AT YOU GARETH EDWARDS YOU FUCK, also cause school succs, bamf jyn, cassian tries to be angsty but he's just a smol puppy, i try to update but i am the world's best procrastinator, smol space puppy, space babies, the romance that never could be cause theYRE FUCKING DEAD, who runs after Jyn and just wants her to pet him as he makes sounds of distress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazilicious/pseuds/lazilicious
Summary: Jyn Erso has never really been given second chances before. They're foreign, rare, and unexplainable. So when's she's finally given one, she's determined not to mess it up on her second time around.Or,The Force wills the lovers' return, for an explanation that dates back all the way to the beginning of time itself.





	1. Chapter 1

Jyn Erso finally realized the true meaning of her nickname when she was about to die on a sandy beach in a tight embrace.

 

 _Stardust_ , they had called her. Her father played, laughed, joked with his little offspring as her mother cleaned up the cuts and scrapes, whispering her nickname to ward off the nightmares of the dark. That was what it had meant to her parents. To her, it had been two syllables, 8 letters. A name. A brand. A name carried on from diapers to rebellions. And _Everything I Do is To Protect You_ , deaths and betrayal and a life lived lost and wasted. A meaning weaved into her life; a one-way ticket to completion and a bracelet on her wrist that defined every breath that she took.

 

She hadn’t been able to escape it. From the moment that she had been born of aliases, from Lianna Hallik and Tanith Pontha, to the day that she had been brought to bow down at the feet of The Alliance, she had been defined by her nickname.

 

She had lived her life as a skeleton for others, defined by the plot of their lives and the wishes of men who sat on thrones and drank her tears from golden goblets.

 

 _Stardust_ was not just a label. It was her legacy. Jyn Erso was born, conceived by Lyra and Galen Erso and raised with love and happiness, in order to die. The Force, if it even existed past Chirrut’s incessant murmurings, willed her into existence so that she could die, and be blown into Stardust.

 

Her legacy; her whole reason for existence, was as sad as it was unstoppable and immovable; like the shockwave which loomed, churned, and destroyed its way towards the beach.

 

The hand on her shoulder gripped her even tighter. Her own chin dug even deeper into the hard muscle of Cassian’s shoulder. Now was the time for her to reminisce on the future, on what could have been. What else could one do, when Death’s cold reach was so near? For Jyn, this was a subversive pleasure. The Future was a place that she had always dreamed of: hoped and cried about. She would stroll down the aisles of her past, choosing and picking which things to change.

 

One last time, ( _and Jyn knows that there can’t be any more because what time is there before the shockwave visits?_ ) Cassian pulls her to arm’s lengths and gazes into her eyes. He’s in pain; the wound on his shoulder and the tears in his eyes mixing with the blood on his face, but Jyn has never seen him so happy. She’s been with this man for days, but it feels like weeks. Weeks, in turn, could’ve turned into years, decades, and centuries.

 

He was an enigma to her. Jyn hated enigmas; they impeded survival and barred freedom: which was what her view had been on Cassian when he first walked in on that meeting with Mon Mothma. She thought she hated him; she practically swore to ignore him forever when she had finally realized that it was his mission to kill her father on a rain-soaked, tragic night. It was in the hangar; when he had gathered all those world-weary men for a suicide mission and pledged his allegiance when she realized that she had trod between the thin line which separated love and hate and survived. In all her life, she’s never met anyone as open, brave, or eager as Captain Andor.

 

In this moment, he looks every bit a broken but satisfied man.

 

“Your parents would have been proud of you,” he says as those warm brown eyes of his gazes deep into her eyes, and there's just so much pain and ecstasy woven into his words. Jyn hugs him tight once more for her throat is choked and she thinks of no words brave or worthy enough to say to this man who has sacrificed everything; and she instead silently lets the tears run down her face. Cassian deserved a thousand more ‘thank you’s. A million more laughs, years, and loves. All he would get was this lonely embrace, bathed in the light of a thousand regrets and wishes.

 

Jyn Erso never credited herself as brave. But when the shockwave hit and death’s face loomed close, not once did she close her eyes.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If this was death, then it was not what he expected at all. Cassian saw none of the grandeur of the sacrifice that his parents had worshiped, or the loneliness of an eternity of regret that he was so _sure_ had awaited him. For him, death was something inevitable. He saw it in every mission he took, in every turn of his ship and each visor of a stormtrooper. It wasn't an ugly thing to him, but that didn't mean it couldn't be pleasant. Surely, for all he had done in his life, he deserved to boil in a thousand circles of hell. 

 

But all he sees is just gray. Clouds float past here and there, and when he looks down in search of where his feet are planted, he gives a shout, stumbles backward when he realizes that there is no floor at all. He is just suspended in nothing.

 

It takes, or took, him quite a while to regain composure. Steady footing once again. Even breathing of four in, five out. Years of experience guide him to stave off panic and keep a stable, but still confused, mind. Brushing dust off his jacket, the same one that he wore on the beach, he noticed that his attire was an exact mirror as the one that he had worn to storm the base on Scarif with the crew of Rogue One.

 

“Shouldn’t my clothes be gone?” He said that out loud into the empty air. No one seemed to be around, so no one answered. Not even a single echo. If he was going to be here forever, he might as well speak his own damn mind without fear. It took him 26 years of life to find his own voice, and only in the afterlife had he truly felt free to shout and sing.

 

“Well,” he intoned as a follow up to his own question when it became obvious it was never going to merit an answer, “I’m still here. Guess my clothes would be as well.” He patted his clothes a few times, and felt the secureness and physical being of his body and pinched his arm while wincing at the painful feeling that soon followed.

 

No denying the bodily pain. It seems that he’s still alive, which contradicts everything thought running through his head. _But_ , he tells himself _, no one could survive a shockwave like that_. So, a correction is needed: he’s conscious, not alive. Somehow, in some distant place far away from all that is familiar and safe, Cassian Andor is still a thinking, breathing, judging man.

 

Is this the present? Or the future? Maybe there is no time here. Just an illusion. An eternity to himself. He was doomed to just drift and drift through this gray sky until time itself was destroyed. It was starting to look a lot like the eternity of regret that he had so feared. He sat down, or laid down, he’s not really sure with all these clouds floating about without any sort of solid matter, and gazed up and up at the gray nothingness.  

 

He used to want this quietness. It had been something that had gotten him through the worst of blood-ridden fights. Silence, so still and unreachable, had been the thing that had lulled him into deep sleeps in the bed of his ten-by-ten foot bunker. It meant escape to him; it meant unfeeling and uncaring and numbness and separation from worldly worries. But now, in a place where there was nothing to escape from, this silence was more of a curse than a blessing. He almost misses the sound of blaster fire, but he dismisses this desire when he truly remembers the death, the pain, and the suffering.

 

“It’s just me now,” he breathed out. His eyes dart between here and there, not really settling because there’s nothing to even stare at. “Kaytoo probably knew he was right. A high probability of me dying alone.” He chuckled to himself sardonically and rubbed his stubbly beard. “Force above, even death is a cold bitch.”

 

Except, he realized after a few moments of gazing at the gray, he didn’t die alone. If he concentrates just hard enough, he can still feel the warmth of Jyn’s body; the look in her green eyes and the way that her face dug into his shoulder. That heartbreaking scream she had made when Krennic’s blaster dug deep into his shoulder and the hard impact of his fall made him see stars.  

 

Death didn’t exactly look too cold. It was being alone that really scared him. He would get shot again and again, and stare into the face of a million shockwaves just so he could feel the warmth of that body and the embrace of those arms just one more time.

 

“I wish I knew where Jyn is,” he said, closing his eyes after getting tired of staring at the same gray for what should have been hours. “She deserves better than this. It might not be hell, but it isn’t any better.”

 

He lets himself drift and dream, for what else is there to do?

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her hands woke up before she did: grabbing and poking at her surroundings and feeling for something, _anything_. There were no grainy granules of sand; and not a single sound of crashing waves or blaster fire. Simply put, she wasn’t on the beach anymore.

 

 _It must’ve been destroyed by the shockwave_ , Jyn thought, her mind still reeling and spinning.

 

Shockwave. Scarif. Death Star. It came back like a trickle at first. Some memories here and there. When the entirety of it hit: when _Cassian_ hit, her body stumbled under the weight of a thousand rivers.

 

She sat up all of a sudden, eyes opening but her head still dizzy and loose from the vertigo of sitting up too quickly. She shouldn’t even have a head. Her body should be split into bits; pieces and limbs disintegrated into stardust. She shouldn’t be able to breathe, to see, to hear, to live. She should be utterly and irrevocably gone.

 

No beach. No signs of sand, shockwaves, or battles. When she looked around and really paid attention to her surroundings for the first time, she gasped in a sharp and bitter breath.

 

All around her were _stars_. Deep lights blinking in and out of existence. Winking, almost, at her. Ultraviolet rainbows of purple, green, and all the colors that had stared at her from the deep abyss of space from prison cells to starships. This was her story, and these stars were her legacy.

 

“I guess I really am stardust now,” she said, holding her eyes open until they watered because _damn if she missed even a second of this view_. Tears choked down from her eyes into her throat, thick like wild honey. Even here, in this mix of afterlife and dreams, she would not cry. “Father would be proud,” she croaks out, more as a consolation to herself.

 

“I wouldn’t be proud,” a rough voice says behind her. “I _am_ proud.”

 

Jyn doesn’t need to look back over her shoulder: to take the few seconds to examine the face, and confirm its identity. She just runs straight into those arms, whose every muscle and tendon she has memorized from childhood to death. She hugs him, afraid that he might be taken away from her at any given second. She’s earned this, she tells herself. Perhaps her death was the price she needed to pay in order to see him again.

 

She’s crying without shame now. Nothing can stop the viscous tears as they drip down her tears, thick like lava. “Papa,” she cries, “Oh papa. You’ve come back to me.” This is what she had truly been fighting for. Screw the Alliance. Damn the Empire. All she had ever wanted was to be back in these arms. It was just her unfortunate luck to have been roped into wild adventures and sacrifices.

 

“Well,” he huffs, and Jyn finally pulls back to look at his face, which is much more uplifted and carefree than it ever had been in his mortal life, “I didn’t find you. You found me.”

 

She searched the lines and wrinkles of his face as if they were the map to an explanation. “I,” she stammers, “I don’t understand. I was here all this time, and you weren’t. Now,” she smiles because she just can’t stop this happiness, “you’ve come back to me.”

 

She’s happy, but he isn’t. She knows by the solemn way his hand hangs, and how his eyes divert away to gaze at some distant stars. “You did die on that beach, you know?” He rubs and squeezes her hands in his as he talks, as if trying to feel her existence. “I failed you. After all this time, all I did, my little girl still had to suffer.”

 

“You didn’t fail me,” Jyn said, heart breaking into a million pieces, “don’t you ever say that again.” She pauses, noticing just how many wrinkles were set into the deep lines of her father’s visage. “Did you really think that?” She whispers it. “All this time? You’ve been allowing yourself to suffer?”

 

“My dear Jyn,” her father sighs after a lengthy pause, “it’s always about others for you, isn’t it? The Alliance wants the plans, so you fly away on a suicide mission. Cassian is wounded, so you die with him instead of fleeing for survival.”

 

She doesn’t need to ask him how he knows Cassian. Dead men tell no tales, but that doesn’t mean they don’t watch and observe.

 

“Don’t bring Cassian into this,” Jyn says softly, looking away from her father’s face so she won’t feel the anger burning and churning deep in her stomach. “You wouldn’t understand.” She has never wanted to hate her father, but in this moment, she is getting far too close to giving in to her anger. It worries her that this is what Cassian has driven her to; a crazy woman consumed by hatred for her own father.

 

The stars are getting dimmer in the distance. The darkness is enveloping, encroaching, a parallel to that fateful shockwave. Her father grabs her with a new sense of urgency, desperation ringing in his voice as all talk about Cassian Andor is forgotten.

 

“Listen to me, Jyn: I can’t explain everything right now. We have but a few seconds left before we are both gone once again. I have to tell you everything I can, and you have to remember. Do you understand, stardust? You _have_ to remember! No matter what happens, follow my words.” Jyn doesn't really understand what he's saying, but he sounds like a dying man, so Jyn grabs onto him as tightly as he’s grabbing onto her.

 

“You’re going back: back home. Only this time around, things will be much different. I can’t tell you everything, but there are people that can.” The stars are fading much too quickly, and soon it’s getting so dark that Jyn can no longer see. The only thing tethering her to her father is the tight grip of his hand and he holds onto it like it’s a lifeline: because for all she knows, it just might be.

 

“Listen to me,” he shakes her urgently, “Find those people. Live your life freely, and let love fill your heart. You will forget about me eventually, and the pain will fade. Trust me in that; I tortured myself for years about your mother.”

 

“Papa? I don’t understand.”

 

“You don’t need to. Jyn; don’t waste this second chance.”

 

He lets go too abruptly for her to ask anything else, and there’s a sinking feeling in Jyn’s stomach as she starts to fall, grabbing onto the darkness for a foothold; any foothold. There’s none, and the last thing she remembers is screaming until her throat is hoarse.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cassian Andor opens his eyes to see the grandeur of a gold-leafed ceiling.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jyn Erso awakens in a cold prison cell, loneliness seeped on her tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year!!!!!! New year, new chapter

“Stay calm, Captain Andor, and do not be alarmed. You are safe, in a medical facility where you are being treated for your injuries. All is well.”

 

Cassian knows the familiar monotone and robotic voice that’s serenading his ears and filtering into his broken mind. He’s heard it far too many times, and at this point it’s almost like a family friend. Medical droids aren’t exactly known for sharp memories, but certainly the ones at the Alliance know him by face, judging by the many times he’s limped into the facility from reckless maneuvers and life-threatening missions. He has long scars all over his body to account for those. 

 

He gets up too quickly, and when he opens his eyes, they are flooded with light that’s so bright it’s painful. He shuts them quickly again, the pain too great. 

 

_ Shit _ , his first thought is,  _ looks like I didn’t escape that shockwave _ . 

 

But there’s no mistaking the sharp pinprick of a needle into his vein, and his eyes jerk open again at the pain to see exactly who, or what, is attacking his arm. He swats at the offending droid, a little thing made of gears and scrap metal, who’s attempting to settle a drip back into his veins. He must’ve torn it off somehow. He snatches his arm away not a moment too soon to escape the sharp prick of the needle. 

 

“Get off me,” he mumbles, still a bit disoriented. He’s seeing three droids instead of one. That can’t be right. It continues in its work, as it’s programmed to do, whirring, beeping, assorting medicine and drugs and letting any of Cassian’s words fly through one ear and out the other. He’s a sick patient, after all. He surely needs to be sedated and chained to the bed until he gets better. 

 

“Get off!” He screams it this time, and the droid finally trods away to help some other patient, with its tail between its legs (if it had one). 

 

Cassian could never stand hospitals. All these wounded patrons around him, some with missing limbs and others with missing minds, set him off with not the typical feelings of sympathy, but fear. Deep, troubling fear that he would be reduced to a mindless husk of a man who thrashed in hospital beds, screaming at invisible monsters and warding off fears of the past. 

 

But this isn’t the hospital. No bloody sheets and screaming veterans. What fills his view instead are ornate chairs and pristine tiled floors, and when he looks up, he sees the gold-leafed ceiling that he had awakened to. This whole room just screamed  _ wealth _ and  _ money _ , two things that he had never been well acquainted to, much to his relief. They made him feel insecure, uncomfortable, and vulnerable to the judgement of the whole world. In many ways, it was better to just be an invisible nobody that filtered in and out through everyone’s lives. 

 

“I have to get out of here,” he whispered, staring at the gold decorations as if they might sprout teeth and tear through his flesh, “I need to find someone.  _ Anyone _ .” He leaps off the hospital cot in a singular fluid stroke, ripping off IV drips and sensors that were so carefully placed, and flees the room amongst alarm beeps and droid calls. 

 

So that’s how the rookies get their first view of the famous Captain Andor, hero of the Alliance and victor of the battle on Scarif; running through the hallways with IV drips trailing after him and sweat dripping onto the floor to create tiny rivers. It doesn’t take long for the authorities to be noted, and soon the initial relief at his survival morphs into concern for his mental wellbeing. 

 

The council doesn’t find him. He finds them. 

 

“What is the meaning of this?” He storms into the control room like a hurricane, demanding answers and starting fires with his eyes. “Why am I still alive?” He really does look like a madman, from the few reflections of himself that he catches off the control panels. Messy hair, stubbly beard, offsetting eyes. He has no reason to be angry, he knows that. But at this moment, when he’s feeling so lost and helpless, the anger is the only thing that he can hold onto. So he lets it consume him; lets it enter his body and claim his soul for the time being. 

 

“I was hoping we might ask you that, captain,” Mon Mothma says, dressed solemnly in that impeccable white gown of hers that never has a spot out of place. She’s the only one who manages to put on a facade of calmness in a room that was so suddenly thrown into an uproar. Draven looks like he wants to fly out of the room and catch the nearest speeder; and more than a couple of the new pilots look at him with judgmental eyes. “Come,” Mothma continues, unperturbed, “sit down and tell us all that you know.”

 

She’s probably expecting some heroic story with dramatized narratives. That won’t be what she’s getting.

 

“I have questions too,” he warns, “and I want answers.” No longer will he be pushed around by the Alliance as some sort of broken and expendable toy; easily replaced or thrown away. He’s done far too much for them, and has little to nothing to show for it. 

 

“All in due time.” Mothma has always been able to be so patient and kind; a few of the things that young Cassian had loved so much when he first took up his blaster and pilot’s seat at the tender age of 14. But now, he has to admit that it’s kind of annoying. She continues. “Trust in us, Captain, and give us good reason to believe in you. After all, as I’m sure you’ve heard before, trust goes both ways.”

 

A spark. A kindling. Familiarity, then oddness once again. He’s feeling unsteady, and as he sinks down into the comfortable padding of the chair, he feels that phrase burn a hole in his heart. Those words have been rooted in his brain far before they even left the lips of Mon Mothma. Murmur and small conversations start up again in the room as Cassian begins to daze and dream.

 

It hits him like the way a gentle breeze caresses on a hot summer night. Green eyes. A warm body. A stolen kiss in the dark secureness of an elevator hurtling downward for death and clenched hands intertwined with the strength of a thousand souls. 

 

“Jyn!” 

 

He reckons that’s his first question, the most important of them all. It comes out more of a shout than an interrogative phrase, and it startles the whole room into silence. Everyone’s looking at him with questioning and apprehensive eyes, but no one is answering; their gazes diverted far away from him. So, he tries again.

 

“Where’s Jyn?” He looks around after he asks this time, as if she’s going to pop out of the walls, all smiles and glittering eyes and  _ I told you I’d be alright, Cassian, I can handle myself, _ without a single scrape on her damn near unkillable and invulnerable body. 

 

“We don’t know, kid,” Draven says, the only one brave enough to break the news after a lengthy silence. “She ain’t here, and we haven’t found a body.”

 

His words drift off towards the end, and Cassian can already guess the word that hasn’t left Draven’s mouth. It’s ‘yet’. They haven’t found a body  _ yet _ , and Cassian doesn’t need to be a genius to understand that’s it just simple phrasing for Jyn’s death. But if there’s one thing that Cassian has learned after spending just mere days with the girl, it’s that Jyn Erso could make Death himself kneel at her feet. The other side he doesn’t want to acknowledge is that he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if she were really dead. 

 

“She’s not dead,” he says solemnly. “There’s no way that Jyn Erso isn’t alive.”

 

“Give us proof, Andor,” Mothma says, matching his confident tone evenly word for word. She will not easily be cowed. “You are not alone in hoping that she is still alive. The fact is, no matter how sad it may seem, is that we cannot give ourselves over to false expectations if there is no evidence to back it up.”

 

There’s no way around the political and airtight system that the bureaucrats of the Alliance have devised; this he knows from 26 years worth of experience pecking and jabbing at their feet. So, instead, Cassian merely raises his two hands in mock surrender, and presses his lips into a thin line. “Alright,” he says, standing back up. “I’ll go find proof, if that’s what you need.” He’s turning around to leave, shooting looks over his shoulder, and says, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find Bodhi and the rest of the crew of Rogue One. We’ll take charge of this mission: it's personal.”

 

“There is no more Bodhi Rook.” Mothma stares at him directly as she talks. “No more Rogue One.” She lets out a sigh, and the tiredness of a million long nights pour through her words. “All other members died during the battle.”

 

“Well,” he says, laughing a bit even though his nerves are tense, “someone had to have flown me back. There has to be an solid explanation for how I just suddenly appear back from quite literally: hell; it’s not like I just appeared in the base out of thin air.” He has his hands spread wide in front of him in some sort of disbelieving shrug, but he finds himself laughing alone. 

 

“But that’s exactly what happened,” Mothma says, her own tone unbelieving, “you quite literally appeared out of nowhere. On this very table, if we are to be exact.” Her hand caresses the round border of the holographic centerpiece that’s situated right in the middle of the room. “It happened right in the middle of a meeting where we had been discussing our victory, and what it meant for the future of the Alliance.”

 

Is he really sure this isn’t a dream? He nervously pinches himself again and tries to analyze each and every detail around the room; looking for anything unusual or off. 

 

“This is real, and you are real,” Mothma says, “you are still quite alive.” She sounded apprehensive, and Cassian thought that she might have been trying to convince herself as much as him. “We will pursue the supernatural reason for your return later. For now we need to ask you a few questions, and then you may go back and rest.”

 

“I don’t want to rest,” Cassian said, trying his hardest to stop his anger from rising to the surface and lashing like a coiled whip, “and I don’t want to answer any questions. I need to find Jyn. Right now.” It was like a need; some sort of insect buried deep in his heart that drove him to secure the well-being of Erso. He told himself it was just a charitable act. That’s all it could be. Would be. Nothing more. 

 

“I know you want to find Jyn,” Mothma said, and there’s a tiny bit of frustration that worms its way past the solidness of her tone, “we all do. There’s nothing we can do right now, so I suggest that you take the time needed to recuperate your strength. Before we go, we want you to answer a few questions about your experience on Scarif. Please,” she motioned back to the chair, “sit back down and get yourself comfortable. This questioning might take a while.”

 

Weak.

 

They were all weak and cowardly. Jyn could be being tortured at this moment for all they knew, and they still wanted to sit on their asses in a secure fort to discuss meaningless politics and statistics. How typical. With a shake of his head and a small growl rumbling deep inside his throat, he turned on his heel and set off in search for some brandy and comfort. 

 

Damn Jyn Erso. The woman had buried her way into the deepest part of his soul like some sort of disease. 

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  


Jyn’s cold when she wakes up. 

 

Not that’s that new; she’s spent many a morning shivering with ice carpeting her body and breaths that turn into fog. Only this time, it’s the feeling of being alone and the absence of a familiar body that makes her cold right down to the bone. 

 

She turns over in an effort to find a blanket or any sort of cover from the cold, but all she feels with her bare and spindly fingers is the cool, steel hardness of the bench that she had been haphazardly thrown on. Cold, dreary, and darkly foreboding, the room that she’s in is no doubt a prison cell; she’s gathered that much from the bars across the door and the absence of any vents or windows. The only remaining question worth addressing is who it belongs to. 

 

Not the Alliance. They wouldn’t be able to afford bars made of mandalorian iron. It seems that they have not gone back on their promise, and she is no longer a criminal. At least, not in their eyes. 

 

Maybe a former enemy is responsible for her present situation? She’s made far too many of those under false names and broken promises. Quite a few hunters might’ve been eager to sell her out for a fancy buck. Only thing is, the cell she’s in looks like no part of an exotic and faraway world, and no signs of smugglers or vices exist. 

 

It looks uniform and straightforward, this place, when she glances out the hallway. The same monochromatic colors and stark lights. It’s uniform to the point that it physically  _ hurts _ to look at. The last time she had seen an aesthetic so strikingly similar was when she had been parading as a stormtrooper through the halls of Scarif’s database. The Empire always did have such a predictable setting.

 

_ No, it can’t be, _ she thinks, clasping a hand over her mouth,  _ I never really did escape those bastards, did I? _

 

The question is answered for her when the sound of queued marching hits her ears and the contrast of white helmets against gray walls berates her eyes. Coward that she is, she makes a point to stare a hole at every non-existing speck of dust on the immaculately clean floor. 

 

“Well, what do we have here?”

 

The voice itself makes her shrink backward a bit in annoyance. It’s nasally, whiny, and every bit the embodiment of what she hopes to never become. It’s so annoyingly irritating and infuriating that she looks up just so she can match a face to a tone. 

 

“Look’s like the little mouse has found her courage, eh? I wonder what she had to steal to trade for it.”

 

It’s some other Imperial official. There’s always too many to remember. A name here, and a name there, but the superior titles they hold are always the same. She can tell his standing by the clean press of his gray uniform that’s amiss of even the slightest hint of a wrinkle. Piercing and arbitrative eyes are another signature of the men in the exclusive club that she has tried so hard to kill and maim. 

 

She tries to spit at his feet, but it comes out as more of a feeble cough. “Go to hell,” she growls instead, staring straight into the his eyes. There’s no way he’s daft enough to miss that message. 

 

Then, stormtroopers are flooding the vault and she’s having her arms cuffed painfully against her back as the air is snatched from her lungs. She tries to get in a few kicks, too tired to land any targets, but it’s already far too useless for her to try anything at this point as armored hands push her down and strangle any hope for fight. 10 stormtroopers? Maybe. 30 or more, along with an official of the Empire? No chance. She might not be the fastest or the brightest, but she did know how to pick her chances. 

 

_ Sit and wait, _ she told herself.  _ Escape comes to those who are patient _ . 

 

She settles her twitching and fight-eager limbs instead by just shooting a vicious glare at the official. Her father did always say that she could pin a man down with a single glance of her no-nonsense gaze. 

 

“I never would have thought that Galen would have such a inconsequential daughter,” the official says in an offhand-thought sort of manner. “Then again, he was quite a pushover. Must’ve been genetic.” A leering smile spreads across his face as Jyn struggles and beats against the troopers in a vain attempt to pummel the face of the man who  _ dares _ to call her father such things. 

 

“It doesn’t matter what you say,” she growls, pasting a smile on her face to mirror his, “ _ we _ still got the final laugh. Are you still wondering where those Death Star plans have ended up after Scarif? How they escaped your secure database? Or are you really as ignorant and dull-witted as everything thinks you are?”

 

His hand connects with her cheek in a motion that’s too fast for her to catch. It’s unexpected, quick, but not at all unwarranted. She spits the blood out of her mouth, and stares right back up at him. She’s won. He’s the one who’s given in to his anger; who’s acted with the malice that his organization had credited to the traitors and rebels. Judging by the look on his face, he knows it too. 

 

He twirls around, hands behind his back, and marches down the hallway in his  _ click-click _ boots. The stormtroopers drag her up by the armpits, none too gently, but she still finds the grace to stumble along on her own two feet. Prisoner or not, she wouldn’t let any despair or hopelessness weasel its way into her actions. 

  
“Come along, Jyn Erso,” the man says, his every step punctuated by the sharp jots of his boots, “we have much to talk about.”


	3. Chapter 3

The clink of the ornate china colliding with a saucepan is a sound that Jyn isn’t quite comfortable with. Truly, she would have much rather preferred torture droids and purple bruises dotted like flowers across her skin. A man dressed in a uniform of black and white with balancing a giant platter in one hand walks up to the table. 

 

“Would you like some biscuits, mistress? Or would some cheeses take your fancy?” The butler sounds just as formal as his uniform looks, and he lowers his platter to allow Jyn to inspect its offerings. Everything on it looks so carefully arranged and organized. The effort, the creativity, and manpower needed to make such a beauty takes Jyn’s breath away. 

 

She glances at the assortments on his plate, various crackers and other little delightments that look far more entertaining and enjoyable than any of her dry and spare rations had ever been. But anything  _ that _ pretty; Jyn was unable to trust. It doesn’t help, either, that she’s in the nest of ruthless dictators who are bent on the subjugation of the entire universe, who don’t care what or who to eliminate so long as they get their way. So, she just shakes her hands in negative affirmation. The official declines also. 

 

“Please,” the man says, “enjoy yourself here. You are not our prisoner, despite what you might think in that thick skull of yours.” He motions wildly with his hands, a grimace painted on his face. “We here are a civilized people, and you will be treated as a guest until certain aspects of your …  _ character _ are made more clear.” He certainly gets comfortable; sips from his own cup and crosses his leg in the plushy couch he had arranged himself on. “So,” a smile, “how do you find your current situation? I must apologize for the way I acted earlier; I must admit that my temper is not a strong suit at all.”

 

Jyn’s cheek still stings, and she remains stiff as a board; hands crossed in her lap and shoulders tensed up all the way past her ears. The cushiony chair feels too foreign to her much too bony body. Faint classical music is playing in the background, a conglomeration of melodies and harmonies that jar her ear far more than the sound of harsh metals clanging in a scrap yard. Jyn has always known that this affluent lifestyle was never meant for her. 

 

“I’m doing very well, many thanks to you,” she says, making sure the sarcasm drips off of her manners. “Although, my dear sir,” and this is the part where she lifts the teacup in a mockingly ladylike fashion, “I must inquire about the reason for my visit.”

 

“What was it you said earlier?” He places down his own teacup and maneuvers his chin onto his poised hand as he assembles himself into a contemplative vibe. “Something about those Death Star plans.” He snaps his fingers for mock effect as he pretends to be reaching the pinnacle of a memory. “Hmm, yes. You thought that would’ve been our downfall, didn’t you? A few blueprints as the key to the destruction of an Empire that has taken trillions of billions of credits and men to build. Think what you want and believe all the lies you’ve heard,” he drops the facade to let in a more steely visage and tone, “but we will never fall.”

 

“You really do have quite bold ambitions, officer…” she lets herself trail off, turning and shifting her vowels and consonants so it’s worded more like a question.

 

“It’s Tarkin, my dear. The formal title is Grand Moff.” His wrinkly face is stretched by his stiff smile.

 

Jyn inwardly snorts at the absurdity of his name. Really; the Empire seems to have a never ending assortment of embarrassing titles that they assign to their various troops. Let them have their false sense of security and power while they still hold some semblance of meaning. The male preoccupation with size and power was precisely why Jyn thought that women ought to lead the masses for a change. 

 

“If I may be so brass, Grand Moff Tarkin, can I ask you a question?”

 

He waves his gloved hand in the air. “Oh, absolutely, my dear. Aren’t we trying to learn more about each other? Ask away.”

 

She has no more need for her sarcastic facade. She drops the manners, and gets straight to the point and the question that had been festering in the back of her mind. “Why am I not dead?”

 

No anger. If anything, Tarkin seems to be pleased by her straight-forward nature. “I have no idea, ma’am,” he says, “you quite literally just popped into existence on our Death Star here. Gave the third watch patrol a big fright, you did. Now, if you could please explain how exactly you managed to infiltrate our security without setting off a single alarm or appearing on a single video footage, that would be wonderful.”

 

The Death Star. She’s trapped on the very thing that she had died trying to destroy. All plans of escape wheel out of her head as she panics, and she turns to the only thing left that she knows for sure: the truth. 

 

“I don’t know how I got here,” Jyn says, and the strong bravado she had set up for herself disintegrates as she swallows nervously. “I opened my eyes, and here I was in a cold prison cell.” She had been under the impression that the Empire had found her on the beach and dragged her to their prison, and this new development was somewhat of a shock to her. It was unexplainable, supernatural, and odd, and that was what scared her the most. Sweat pooled on her palms and she discreetly wiped them on the dirt covered fabric of her pants.

 

“Please, for your sake, do not lie,” Tarkin says, and Jyn gives him credit for at least pretending to look sorry. “It would be most unpleasant if we had to resort to more violent methods to loosen your tongue. Of course, all could be forgiven if you just cooperated with our questions. We could even forget your little infiltration on Scarif, and the damage that you and little friends inflicted on our troops. Just tell us what we want to know, and you can walk away cleared of all charges.”

 

“I’ll pass,” Jyn said. If there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that the Empire was built on lies.

 

Tarkin completely ignores her refusal. “Let’s start off easy. Where is the present base of the Alliance located? We have a few ideas, but any of your contributions would be welcome. Is it Hoth? Tatooine? Some random little asteroid on the Outer Rim?” He clinks a teacup against his saucer. “They’re slippery, these bastards. Been eluding us for some time now. We find their base every few years, but they somehow  _ always _ manage to set up camp in yet another place. Just like a virus, or a disease.”

 

“I’m not going to tell you where their base is,” Jyn says. “Go ahead, use all your interrogation techniques. I won’t budge an inch.” Sitting up straighter, morphing her lips into a frown, she crosses her arm and sits nice and tight in her seat. 

 

“Ah. I see. You think them the heroes, do you not? You’re probably convinced that they’re the tiny little warriors who are waging a courageous fight against a giant, horrible monster. They probably had you  _ weeping _ over their little sob story. But the fact is, my dear Jyn,” he leans in closer, as if that’ll close the good 10 feet of table they have seperating them, “they have just as much, if not more, blood on their hands.”

 

She says nothing. He takes that to be a signal to continue. 

 

“We haven’t even launched an offensive on them yet. Each and every time it’s  _ them _ who initiate the attack. I would tell you the amount of innocent civilians they’ve killed, but it’s rising far too quickly for anyone to even keep a stable number of it. Do you know, that within our Empire, we’ve established orphanages dedicated to the well-being of any orphans than the Alliance has created?”

 

No, she did not know that. The bastard could be lying, but the statement still shakes her to the core. It’s a far cry for the Empire, killer of babies and mothers, to establish orphanages for civilians who were killed by attacks done by their mortal enemy, the Alliance. It’s fake, of course. Some play by Tarkin to appeal to her sympathy and own parent-less backgrounds. Still, it’s disorienting. Surprise probably shows on her face, for Tarkin continues with his speech, even more impassioned and driven. 

 

“What’s even more startling is the fact that the Alliance controls more assassins and hitmen than any other organization in the entire universe; and they’re making good use of the filth that they’ve employed. Too many good men have been shot down by their blasters or cut down by their knives. By now, I can’t even count the attempts made by my life. The number just keeps growing and growing.” He draws back his sleeve and points to an ugly scar on the inside of his forearm. “See this little gem? It’s a souvenir from the fifth poisoning that the Alliance gifted to me.”

 

“Pretty,” Jyn mumbles. “I bet it makes great stories at your little murder-planning parties with all your imperial friends. Tell me captain, have you ever watched someone die?”

 

“Can’t say I have,” Tarkin says. He’s playing along with her new course of action; probably hoping that she’s finally going to give in and betray the cause that she died for.

 

_ Perfect _ , Jyn thinks. It’s time for Tarkin to really feel the wrath of his own hand. “First time,” Jyn begins, “it was my own mother. Lyra Erson. I’m sure you’ve heard about it, either from my own father or the late Orson Krennic. Simple death, of course. She hadn’t even fired a bullet before she got one lodged in her heart.”

 

“Well, my deepest regrets,” Tarkin says, sounding not the least bit sorrowful. “I cannot, however, account for any actions that officers below me have performed.”

 

Of course he’s too much of coward to even try and address the death that was surely his responsibility. “The rest of the times when I saw death, they were just a blur,” Jyn says. “I don’t think I’ve ever shot anyone in cold blood. Maybe a few times here and there, but purely in self defense. Most of the time, I hadn’t even gotten a word in before stormtroopers aimed right for my head.”

 

Tarkin tries to speak, but Jyn doesn’t stop to let him get even a single word in. 

 

“It was horrifying, the first time I saw your Empire kill a child. Ripped her right from her mother’s chest. It wasn’t a single shot in the forehead; that would’ve been too quick. I heard the crunches as her bones broke, and I heard her screams as she cried and wailed. But do you know what the worst part was, Grand Moff?”

 

By now he’s looking at her intently, no sign of hatred or excitement on his face. He probably even knew what was coming. 

 

“They  _ laughed _ . Your troops laughed as the mother cried, and they laughed as they dropped that child’s body onto the ground and drove her face into the dirt with their boots. And to this day, I still can’t forget or forgive, no matter how many times I keep hearing your propaganda say that the Empire is good, and that you will bring about much-needed order to the entire universe. It’s not order that I care about. It’s the  _ way _ that you bring about order that really scares me.”

 

“Look, Jyn,” Tarkin says, chewing on his tongue as if he’s searching for the right words. “I know you have some disagreements with us, but the fact is, and will remain, that the Alliance will fall. Now, you can help us determine how quickly and how violently the process will be. Tell us all that you know, and some deals can be made. Lives will be saved, and even less blood will be shed. Ignore our plea, and we can throw you right back into that prison cell and you can rot until the end of your numbered days.” He leans in, a predator preparing to fire the final shot. This is the silver lining; the gold reward. “Tell us all you know, and we’ll wipe your record and let you go. You could be a free woman once more.”

 

She knew he was lying (they would kill her anyway), but that didn’t stop the little daisy of excitement that spiraled up in her chest at the mention of the word  _ free _ . All at once,  _ something _ floods her mind, images of the life that she could lead filled the space behind her eyelids and there were so many opportunities, jokes, and paths that she could taste on her tongue. She could settle down; lead a legal life for once. A family might even be possible; two smiling children and twice-removed cousins; and if she just squints hard enough, Jyn can see herself holding hands, kissing, and holding a lover. Someone whose eyes twinkle like stars, and whose smile is bright enough to light up a whole fucking galaxy.  _ You’re home _ , he says, leaning close enough that his breath brushes against her cheek.  _ Light it up _ , he whispers into his communicator mobile as he locks his eyes onto hers and makes her want to dive through hell and back. Somewhere, sometime, an old Jyn kisses her forehead as they stare off into the sunset.

 

_ Cassian _ was what was flooding her mind. He was the future, the past, and the present.  _ He had died with her, _ Jyn realized. He had been the one who hugged her tight as the shockwave encroached near the beach. In a world where everyone left, where they never said their sorries and flew into the deep, dark, night, Cassian had stayed. Their love story had began, Jyn realized, in that elevator when they had both gotten a glimpse into the future that they could never have. Now, it was up to her to decide the ending.

 

So damn her freedom; damn this deal with the Empire. Jyn Erso had a new goal on her mind, and woe to all who stood in her way. At least one more time before she died (again), she would seize the captain’s face between her hands and give him the kiss that was long overdue. She would say those three words that had never been uttered to another being, and she would grow old and happy with him by her side.

 

So she shoves her teacup into the Grand Moff’s face, splashing tea leaves and sugar cubes all over his wrinkled and aged face. She laughs, doesn’t stop laughing even as she’s dragged out of the room and Tarkin’s voice is booming and echoing throughout the room. 

  
She laughs so hard that it keeps her mouth open for the torture droid.


	4. Chapter 4

The liquor burns, but it’s a good type of burn. It lingers, so it’s not forgotten. Cassian needs something to occupy his mind, and this coupling of mescal and tequila will do just fine. One shot goes down, then another. It becomes a sort of twisted game for him; downing shot after shot after shot in some sort of personal race. Soon, he’s finding it hard enough to signal for the bartender to bring another, what with the dizziness and buzzed feeling that the alcohol is giving him. 

 

“Fingers are so weird,” he murmurs to himself, squinting as he starts to see double visions. “They’re just like tiny arms that branch off of your arm.” He’s losing his mind, and he knows it. But losing it is better than embracing it.

 

Someone else sidles into the seat next to him, and he tell by the curves that it isn’t a man. Usually, he’d be burning hot right now and all charming words and flirtations. They’ve been replaced with a gaping hole in his heart. Emptiness. 

 

“You’re quite the hero, Andor,” the figure says in a soft voice. “And… a hero deserves a warm thank-you. Are you ready to be treated with a nice, personal show of gratitude?” Her fingers run down the front of his jacket, her nails so long he can feel their piercing tips digging into the hard flesh beneath. The old Cassian would already be in bed now, with company and sweaty bodies. 

 

Instead, he grips her by the wrist, leans in close so he can hear her giggles and see her coquettish smile. Oh, he’s back, it seems. Charming and mysterious Andor who never lets anyone into his mind and teleports women into his bed with just with a gaze. Morning afters just find him alone with messy-haired women already spreading talk and rumor around the base. 

 

“Leave,” he growls, puffing his alcohol-stenched breath into her face for good measure. She thinks it’s all part of his hard-to-get demeanor, and finally gets the hint when he turns back and starts paying more attention to his drink. 

 

Something’s wrong. What’s to blame for the lapse in his masculinity? His virility, vigor, and strength? It’s like his heart has been torn, and all that remains is a hole, stuffed clumsily with remnants of past memories and odd, stretched visions of the future and what could have been. Ever since he woke up, back from the dead, he has been feeling lost, a husk of his old self. Walking around with no purpose, he’s about as useful as anvempty shell. 

 

Well, actually, (his pessimistic subconscious corrects him) even shells are beautiful and ornate. People liked to look at them, and hung them up as decoration to give a room bright and bountiful energy. Quite sad, really. At this point, he was more useless than even a tiny, little shell. His head droops low with exhaustion and sadness, hitting the bar wood with a thump as he closes his eyes and lets himself daydream.

 

It’s the past, a time from his past life; when he and Jyn had just came back from Eadu and the complete misery of his betrayal had driven him far, far away from her. Foolish Cassian; pushing away the people that had actually meant something to him. Any moment now, she would burst through the doors and incite up another plan to overthrow the government. She’d do that little smile of hers after he introduced her to the volunteers, and then he’d smile back as they flew off into space, dubbed ‘Rogue One’ by nervous Bodhi and cheered on by Chirrut and Baze.

 

What a spitfire. Troublemaker. Really, she’s expendable and she ought to be tossed away after all the racket she’s caused. The Alliance would be better off without her. 

 

“Captain Andor!” Someone else settles in the chair on the other side of him. It’s a guy, and he can tell by the chipper and eager tone that it’s a rookie not yet soiled and ruined by the harsh reality of combat. “I’m so honored to meet you. The name’s Luke; Luke Skywalker.”

 

“Hmm?” Has the voice just called itself a name? Blinking drowsily, he lifts his head and slaps out his hand for a handshake. “Nice to meet you… uh…. Luke, you said?” It sounds somewhat familiar, but at this point he’s so far gone that he can’t tell right from left. 

 

“Yes, sir,” the blond-haired blond says, confusion (and is that disappointment?) in his voice as he watches the hero of the Alliance pull himself out of a drunken nap. 

 

“Do yourself a favor,” Cassian says, squinting and pointing at the poor boy. “Grab the nearest X-wing you can find, commandeer it, and fly the hell out of this shithole to some far and distant world. Don’t look back, and just keep on flying til you don’t even remember your own name. Then, I’d count you a lucky man.”

 

The boy is at a loss for words. “Uh, I can’t exactly do that..”

 

“How come?” Cassian might as well listen to the bright future of a young pilot if it’ll distract himself from his own depressing life. 

 

“Princess Leia has gone missing,” Luke says, excitement equally mixed with nervousness, “and I’ve been tasked with finding her. Han Solo’s coming with me, on some ship he calls the Millennium Falcon. I was just wondering if you had any last-minute tips for me,” the boy says, “since I’m not exactly an expert in flying dangerous maneuvers and saving lives.”

 

_ I didn’t save any lives _ , Cassian thinks.  _ I destroyed them, and in the process, I ruined any hope of a happy future for myself. _

 

He was a broken man now, filled with regrets and “what if”s. That hug wasn’t enough, now that he looked back on it from a relatively safe and calm enviornment. He should have kissed her with everything that he had, and treated her like she was an oasis and he was a man half-starved to death. Missed opportunities; everywhere he looked. The crying girl that she held in her arms in Jedha, the way she was so willing to risk her life for another and the way she had smacked each and every stormtrooper down with naught but a small baton. He should’ve kissed her then.  _ You’re home _ , he had told her later, and in that split second he had leaned in  _ so _ close, but not close enough. What would it have taken, then, for him to close that distance and really show her the side of Cassian Andor that remained a better-kept secret than the treasures of the Jedi?

 

It must’ve been a while. Luke cleared his throat and Cassian was snapped back to the cold, harsh truth of reality.

 

“Go get the girl,” he said, so softly that Luke had to strain his ears just to catch each word. “Get her and do everything so right that you and her won’t be filled with regret it in a million years.”

 

When Luke left, seized by hope and optimism, so did he. Expectation, ambition and aspiration seized his body and flushed out all remnants of liquor, until all that remained was the steady flow of the river of life itself, carried to and fro in his body by the steady beating of a newfound heart. 

 

He was going to get Jyn. She’s alive, he knows this, but he can’t explain how. Each time he says or even thinks about her name, her face, or her piercing eyes, he feels a sort of  _ tug _ in his body, like the Force is trying to nudge him closer and closer to her. 

 

It was starting to look like Chirrut wasn’t a mumbling madman after all. 

 

He rushes to his room, and throws everything into a tiny bag. Blaster, jacket, he’s got it all. He’s a lonely man, and his bunker is just as empty as he is. As long as he’s got this power in him, this ambition and  _ need _ to make sure that Jyn Erso is alive and well, he won’t need any material comfort. Clothes can be replaced, but a companion can’t. Satisfied with his packing, he runs into the hallway, makes some turns, and bumps right into-

 

“Bodhi?”

 

“Cassian?”

 

They say each other’s name at the same time, but Cassian is the first to pull them together in a tight hug: mostly so the other pilot won’t be able to see the tears pooling behind his eyes and threatening to escape. Bodhi is alive, and now Cassian’s feeling a little more complete. Another member of the squad, brought back to life against all odds. 

 

“I thought you were dead!” Cassian pulls apart from the hug to get a better look at his friend, looking for any scrapes, cuts or bruises.  

 

“So did I!” Bodhi throws up his hand in disbelief, and looks like he hardly believes himself to be real. “I remember everything; some grenade flew in the ship and blasted me to bits on Scarif. Next thing I know, I find myself sprawled on the top of a mountain near the base here on Yavin 4.”

 

Another friend back from the dead, another supernatural cause.

 

“Same here,” Cassian said, “except I woke up to find myself in a nice and comfortable hospital cot, even though I’m fairly sure that a shockwave killed Jyn and I.”

 

“Jyn?” Bodhi looks around, like she’s about to pop up behind him and crush him a hug. “What’s her supernatural explanation? She’ll probably said that she went to Hell and pinched death’s ear until he gave her a second chance.” He’s joking, smiling, but Cassian isn’t.

 

“She’s not here, and the Alliance thinks that she’s dead,” Cassian says, “but I’ll bet my life that she’s alive. She’s somewhere out there, Bodhi, I’m sure of it, and I’m going to find her even if it takes me a million years. Go get some rest,” Cassian claps a hand on Bodhi’s shoulder, “and enjoy your new life a little before reality sinks in.” He walks away, leaving prayers with the young pilot and hoping that he won’t be as frequent a customer to the bar as he was. 

 

“I’m going with you.”

 

He was already turning a corner when Bodhi’s small but confident statement reached his ears. Sighing, frowning, and altogether displeased, Cassian turns around. This was exactly what he feared when he had first saw his friend, back from the dead. 

 

“Don’t risk your life,” he says, exasperated at how even after being resurrected and dragged back from death, Bodhi was still as innocent and pure as an baby boy. “Unlike me, you’ve actually got a bright future ahead of you. 

 

“What’s the point of being given a second life,” Bodhi said, stepping closer, “if I can’t spend it with my friends who were with me? We were all there; we were in it together. We were Rogue One! The hope of the Alliance and the bane of the Empire! Together we died, so together we must’ve returned. Jyn, Chirrut, and Baze are out there, somewhere, waiting for us. We gotta find them and bring them back home.”

 

_ “Welcome home,” Cassian says, and Jyn flashes him the tiniest of smiles, a look of wonder in her eyes when he mentions that four letter word. It occurs to him, then. Jyn probably never had a place, or person, to call home _ .

 

_ They’re about to take off in the Imperial shuttle, when the blasted comm radio that he should’ve turned off blares to life. “You’re not cleared for liftoff,” someone says on the crackling static, “name yourselves!” When Bodhi looks back at them all, determination set into all the lines of his face, he turns to look as Jyn holds up one solitary finger.  _

 

_ “Rogue one,” he says, “we’re Rogue One.” _

 

_ That’s when Cassian realizes that he’s found his new family. The Empire may have taken his old one in a giant blaze of death and murder, but a new one has been formed for him through the same violence and loss.   _

 

Cassian smiles, and walks to Bodhi so he can grab him by the shoulders and they smile so hard that the skin might peel off of their faces. 

 

“Let's go bring them home, Bodhi. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

 

A stolen shuttle, missing supplies, and a chaotic hangar later, Cassian and Bodhi shoot off into the dark, star-filled night. Everyone’s angry, of course. Draven’s about as red as a tomato and the control room is filled with generals arguing about the effect of yet another Scarif-like situation. Damn Cassian, they say. He’s too emotional, and too controlled by his feelings. 

 

Mon Mothma just stands quietly in the back and smiles. 


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m not telling you anything!” 

She grits her teeth as the blade digs ps even deeper into her leg. They’ve targeted her thigh, and she remembers from childhood lessons that it’s the prime place for torture. Lots of nerve endings there; a perfect breeding place for pain and suffering. It’s been going on for hours, she thinks, this torture. All the while as droids and troopers shock, stab, and beat her, Tarkin stands as a constant shadow in the corner.

She hisses and bites her tongue until she tastes blood, when the blade  _ twists _ and goes even deeper until she swears that it hits the bone.  _ It’s only pain _ , she says.  _ I can do this, I can do this, I can do this _ …

 

“Stop.”

 

She would sigh with relief, but that would be a sign of weakness so she bites her tongue until even more irony and thick blood floods her mouth. What angl is Tarkin playing? He’s probably got something else up his sleeve if he’s willing to stop torturing her. She had been worried that he would eventually chop off a limb. 

 

“You’ve been trained well in bodily endurance,” Tarkin says, and Jyn knows that he’s definitely read up on her past with Saw Gerrera and the other extremists. “It would just be a waste of time and manpower if we continue on our current path.” He walks over to a panel on the side. “Medic to cell I-47. When finished, escort her to briefing room I25.” He leaves the room without even a second glance. 

 

This, this right here, is her chance to escape. It’s a rare window of opportunity, and she might rot here forever if she doesn’t take it. So the moment the medic arrives and the door slides open, Jyn runs as fast as she can with the gaping wound on her thigh for the open door, ignoring the clamor and shouts of the troopers left behind. 

 

But wounded, she’s easy prey for them, and they descend on her like wolves digging into a fatty treasure. Next thing she knows, she’s lying on the floor with boots pinning down her hands, arms, legs, and she’s cursing herself for her stupidity and hating the fact that she has a huge, giant hole in her thigh. 

 

“This,” a medic says, crouching down to her level, “is a tracker chip. You can blame your temperamental attitude for this. We can’t have you escaping on us, not while you’re so valuable, so this should do the trick. It draws energy from your own body heat, so as long as you’re alive, we’ll know exactly where you are.” The syringe of the needle jabs deep into her neck, and Jyn cries out in both pain and frustration as she sees the true futility of her situation. Escape is nigh impossible, the Alliance has no idea where she is, and she’s trapped on a planet destroyer that’s filled in every nook and cranny with her mortal enemies.

 

It’s not one of her best days. 

 

Since she can’t exactly walk after exerting too much pain on her thigh wound, the troopers are forced to drag her by the armpits, and her legs scrape against the floor with each synchronized march. One, two, three… she eventually counts about two thousand, six hundred, and seventeen steps when they finally stop at a door. 

 

Inside, droids are whirring about to tend to burn victims, dismembered veterans, and more grotesque sights. People are groaning, screaming, or crying; and it hurts her eyes to see so much suffering and sadness cooped up in one small room. 

 

A bacta patch is slammed on her thigh with any warning or preamble, and she’s tossed carelessly onto a table by troopers. Before she can cuss them out or even squeeze in an offensive hand gesture, a droid clanks over and starts scanning, poking, and prodding her body. 

 

_ It’s trying to heal me _ , she thinks. If she wants to even have a single hope of escaping, then she has to be in prime condition. So for now, she must suck it up and let the droid do its job.

 

About an hour later, after needles, wraps, and diagnoses, she’s all set to go. As she leaves, (still escorted by troopers, dammit) she catches a glance of her reflection. Not a single scar is present on her face, or her body, even. It’s refreshing to see herself born new again, but it also hurts a bit. Each scar had its own story, and each burn and bruise conjured up memories with each glance. Even those things, the tiniest and furthest bits of happiness, the Empire has taken away. 

 

Briefing room I29 comes into her view after about a thousand turns and what feels like a million steps; and her head feels so dizzy that she  _ needs _ to sit down. The door slides open, and she sees about a billion empty chairs, with only one occupied. 

 

“Come in, and take a seat,” Tarkin says. Disobeying and rebelling at this point would just result in more injuries and virtually no helpful results, so Jyn does as he says. 

 

“You’re right. You won’t say anything about the Alliance’s plans. You’re too well-trained for our torture techniques, and your mouth seems to just stay glued shut. Of course, Lord Vader could always drop by for a visit and pluck any ideas out of your head easily,” Tarkin says. 

 

At the mention of Vader, Jyn’s heart starts to jackhammer at about a million paces per second. Survivors of his monsterous and merciless attacks always have the same signature mark: mindlessness. They go mad, crazy, and unstable. No one, she’s heard, can keep that monster from stealing their thoughts. It’s as easy as a stroll through the biogarden for him to kill, loot, and steal. 

 

“We believe that you have nothing of great significance to offer us,” Tarkin says, sensing her uneasiness. “We have other Alliance prisoners scattered throughout our bases, and they’re bound to crack much more easily. All we have is time, and an endless amount of means to open their mouths and let loose their secrets. So now, I’m afraid, any information you hold is rendered completely useless.”

 

“So you’ll kill me,” Jyn says. “No need to sugar over the nasty parts, Grand Moff.”

 

He laughs, harsh and brazen. “Don’t be so down, Jyn. We’re not going to kill you! That would be a huge, colossal waste of opportunity. You still have many more chances to help us, but the difference this time around is that you don’t have a choice. You’ll do each and every little thing that we tell you to do.”

 

“No, I won’t,” Jyn says, “so you might as well kill me now.”

 

“The thing is, Jyn, you’re quite the martyr for the Alliance. People are practically praising your name in the streets, and mothers and children are weeping over your death. Do you know that you’ve had over 100 memorials held in your name already?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, it was a fun fact anyway. So here we have you, the flag-holder of the Alliance, the jewel of the people’s eye. Have you ever wondered just how betrayed they would feel if you were to somehow… switch sides on this war?”

 

She knows where he’s going, but she’s still unfamiliar with the idea that she actually  _ means _ something to the common people. They used to hunt her down and sell her out for the bounty, and now they’re crying over her death? It’s quite a stretch. But another part, the part of Jyn Erso that realizes her folly, knows that she’s so uncomfortable with this notion because she’s never had anyone care about her before. 

 

“Imagine their outrage, if they were to see you parading about the Imperial cities, rubbing elbows with aristocrats. I’m sure it’ll prove quite damaging to their morale. If you follow this notion, our plan, then I’m sure we can arrange some credits to be funneled away into a private bank account. Maybe, after a few years when the war is presumably over and won, you could walk away, free.”

 

“I would rather die,” Jyn whispers, for it is the truth. “If you think I will willingly betray the trust of the people that I quite literally  _ died _ for, then you are severely mistaken.”

 

“I thought you would say that,” Tarkin says, “so I’ve taken the liberty of arranging a little… persuasion.”

 

“I can handle more torture,” Jyn says, but she knows that can’t be what he’s planning. Why bother healing her if he was just going to rip her apart once more?

 

The door slams open and more troopers enter the room, dragging a small child by her arms. 

 

It’s making Jyn sick just to watch, as the troopers slap the poor little child once against her cheek and then throw her mercilessly onto the ground in front of Tarkin. She gets up and tries to run to the girl so she can at least shield her from any further harassment, but Tarkin pulls something long, heavy, and dangerous out of his robe. 

 

“Not another step, I’m afraid, or you might end up with a blaster hole in that pretty face of yours.”

 

She lowers herself back down into her chair, anticipation and fear starting to show as her breaths get quicker and quicker. 

 

“I’ll ask you again, Jyn,” Tarkin says, moving his arm slowly and steadily so the blaster is now aimed at the tiny child cowering at his feet. “Will you help us?”

 

_ He can’t do it, _ Jyn thinks,  _ he won’t. This is just another technique of his _ . 

 

“No,” she whispers, forcing herself to tune out the cries of the little girl. “I won’t join your murderous cause. Go to hell.”

 

A single blaster shot ends it all. The struggling ceases as the girl becomes impossibly still. 

 

It’s not the first time Jyn’s seen a child die, but the difference lies in the fact that she is to blame for this one. There are no excuses, no easy escapes from the realization that as long as she lives, and remembers, she will never forget this girl and the cost of her own stubbornness. 

 

“Bring in another,” Tarkin says. 

 

This time, it’s a young boy. His clothes are ragged, with stains of blood pooling from various cuts and bruises. It seemed that he didn’t go quietly. His eyes are set into determined pools, and his mouth is curled downwards in an eternal frown of displeasure. He goes so far as to forcibly shrug the stormtroopers’ grips off of his arm, preferring instead to limp by himself to face the Grand Moff. 

 

“Get it over with,” he says, and his voice sounds stronger than even the maturest of men. “Kill me.”

 

“Don’t be so impatient,” Tarkin says. “You’re not the only guest here. Here’s another chance for you, Jyn. All you have to do is say yes and this little boy can go back to his family.”

 

“I don’t have a family,” the boy interrupts. “You killed them all, ‘member?” He spits at Tarkin’s feet in what is clearly a sign of dishonor. Jyn likes this boy; he’s rude, uncultured, and has faced uncountable loss. In a strange way, he reminds her of herself. 

 

Tarkin just hits him once on the head, and it makes an ugly clunk against the boy’s head. He screams in pain as the metal makes contact, and goes down on his knees clutching the wound and hissing. 

 

“Last chance, Jyn, before you have another death on your consciousness.” He cocks the blaster and shifts it into a more secure handhold before beginning the countdown. “3… 2….”

 

He’s about to reach the point of no return, the point of  _ bang _ and blood, when Jyn looks desperately at the boy as if her the willfulness of her hope alone can save him. He’s not closing his eyes, or whimpering, or cowering on the floor begging for his life. He’s staring unblinkingly right at Tarkin, that same snarl on his face as his fists clench in rage.  _ Kill me _ , his defiant face seems to say.  _ I don’t give a damn _ . 

 

“I’ll do it!” Jyn stands up and shouts those three words; the contract of her doom. 

 

She’s sees so much of herself in the little boy. Defiant, angry, and eager to believe that the world is nothing but an evil conglomeration of ‘what can wrong, will go wrong.’ She  _ needs _ to save this boy, she feels, and let him know the truth: that life really is worth living when you’ve found your reason. 

 

“Spare him. Promise me that he will come to no harm.” It’s the only condition that Jyn truly cares about. She can always find an escape, but something in her wants to take this boy with her when she finally does run. 

 

Tarkin looks at her with a pleased expression, while the look on the boy’s face is nothing but a dumbfounded and lost stare of wonder. He probably hates her for taking away such an easy pathway to death: the long way to what he thinks is heaven, where he can hug and laugh with his lost loved ones once more. Jyn’s been there before.

 

_ Life is worth living, little boy _ , she wants to say.  _ Don’t throw it away so easily _ . 

 

Tarkin stows his blaster away. “I’m so glad you’ve finally seen our side,” he says. “I promise that you will still be treated as our esteemed and honored guest in every way possible. Now, we’ll escort you to a private room where you’ll follow our expectations for hygiene and-”

 

“Bring the boy somewhere safe,” she says, “and you can put me anywhere you want. I don’t care if I go back to that prison cell.”

 

She doesn’t rest until she sees, with her own eyes, the boy walk into a clean and new suite that has a bed, fresher, and everything else he needs. It locks from the outside, of course, but at least he’s alive and comfortable. Then, she lets the troopers drag her wherever they want, her eyes looking around but her mind not really taking it in. 

 

They open the door to an elaborate suite that has gold-lined doors and silver marbling. There’s a bed with a queen canopy; the type that she would’ve pored over when she was a child. Couches, coffee tables, and other pieces of furniture that would stay unused if Jyn had her way. There’s a vanity next to the fresher that has so many colorful bottles stacked on jars and containers that look way too foreign and out-of place. 

  
_ No _ , Jyn realizes,  _ I’m the one out of place. _


	6. Chapter 6

In about 30 minutes, she looks as pretty as she’s ever been. She was dragged first, into the shower where each and every part of her was scrubbed pink until her skin was as soft as a newborn babe’s. Dark kohl is now lined around those big eyes of her, and a color so red and deep has been feathered onto her lips. Her hair is up in an elaborate style, so many pins and clips lost beneath the giant mass of mane that it’ll be a hell to get them all out. 

 

She already tried to talk to her maids, droids, and anyone who would listen. They just ignore anything she says and keep their eyes downcast towards the ground. They hadn’t even batted any eyelashes at her lean and starved form in the shower. Jyn had been the one to feel embarrassed. 

 

_ Is that really me? _ She keeps sneaking glances into the mirror, thinking that some evil seductress had taken her body. She doesn’t stare for too long, though. Jyn has learned from years of experience and observation about just how dangerous vanity could be. 

 

“Come this way, miss,” one of her youngest maids says, “we’ll have to slip you into something nice. Grand Moff Tarkin’s orders.”

 

The girl is so young, so timid and unapproachable. She does her duty, and stuffs Jyn into a dress made of pink silk that flows effortlessly like ripples of water each time she moves. 

 

She can’t stop running her hands down the front of the dress. It feels just like soft butter; and Jyn finds herself afraid to breathe in fear that the dress will just be ripped to shreds. Some gloves are slid onto her forearms, and the last finishing step is a pair of flats that feel too stiff and tight. 

 

Silk against skin is a sensation that she doesn’t enjoy. She’d rather be clad in her hunter's attire, out and running in the woods free and unrestrained where she belongs. Walking in these flats just feels awkward, and the swishing sound that the dress makes when it glides against the floor is starting to get on her nerves. How can she escape in this horrendous outfit when she can’t even breathe properly, let alone walk at ease?

 

“This way, miss. Your escorts are here.”

 

They open the door for her (of course  _ she _ can’t because her nails are freshly painted) and outside, face upon face of Imperial soldiers meet her and her dreams of escape are cut short. Not now, not while she’s pampered like some fat greasebird waiting to be roasted. 

 

All she does is just give them a dirty glare, then lets them lead the way to whatever hellhole she’ll be arriving at. 

 

Before they even open the door, she knows that it’ll be a party. Chatter and faint clinking are seeping out from the doorframe into the hallway, and when the troopers open the door for her because  _ obviously  _ she’s so delicate that she can’t even open a door without help, all the men and women, dressed in suits and long gowns, stop whatever mindless actions they were doing and turn to gaze at her with befuddled looks. 

 

“Ah! She has finally arrived!” Tarkin practically runs over to her and Jyn has to stop herself from mocking his pretentious uniform. He’s still a snake, albeit a snake dressed in an expensive suit with fine taste. He takes her hand, and lifts the champagne flute in his other. “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me the pleasure of introducing our newest ally in the fight against the Alliance: Jyn Erso!”

 

There’s scattered applause from around the room, but that does nothing to quell some of the suspicious glares she’s getting. 

 

“Enjoy yourself,” Tarkin says when people start to chatter again, “and let me remind you, in case you forget, that there are some important things at stake.”

 

He directs her attention to one of the corners of the room, and she sees the little boy from before. He’s sitting on a chair with a grumpy frown, but what concerns her the most is the trooper who stands behind him, an active blaster in his hand. 

 

“You promised me no harm would come to him,” Jyn hissed, berating herself for believing that the Empire would actually keep their word. “Let him go back to his room. I’m sure he’s no threat.”

 

“I won’t break my promise unless you break yours, Jyn. The boy is just here to make sure that you keep your end of the bargain. If we both act honestly and loyally, then no one shall be harmed. Let’s talk no further of such serious things.” He takes her hand and Jyn knows better than to try and tug it away. “There’s a few people I want you to meet.”

 

This blasted dress seems to be getting longer and longer with each step that she takes and soon Jyn is tripping over each small step.

 

“Ah! Brendol! I’m so glad you made it!”

 

Her first impression is an image of hair so red and fiery, an orange that is brighter than the sun itself. He turns around, and Jyn is lost in the fact that he might be the most handsome man she has ever seen. 

 

She never would be caught dead as a swooning and fainting maiden, but now she finds herself examining each and every one of this Brendol’s striking features. His cheekbones are high and cut like a dropoff cliff, and his jawline is sharper than any knife in the known universe. And his eyes… are a color of blue that she’s never seen before. 

 

He’s judging her just as she’s judging him. 

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Jyn. The name is Brendol Hux.” He holds out his hand, obviously expecting one in return. Jyn lets him wait as the silence goes on for one, two, three, and a couple more seconds. It’s nice to see everyone else shuffle their feet uncomfortably. 

 

“I’ll pass,” Jyn says at last. “I don’t make a habit of shaking hands with murderers.”

 

The whole group is shocked into silence. The men stare at her with dumbfounded stares. The women make a big show of gasping dramatically, and they cover their mouths with gloved hands that sparkle with a million diamond rings.

 

“I like her,” Brendol Hux says, turning around to ignore her and addressing Tarkin instead. “She’s quite a bit to handle, but I’ve never seen anything as ferocious as her for quite a while.”

 

He makes it sound like a good thing, like it’s some sort of compliment. 

 

Tarkin just chuckles like it’s some sort of inside joke, and Jyn wonders if she’s the first prisoner that the Empire has stolen from the Alliance. “Well, I’ll leave you two to get to know each other better,” Tarkin says. “Come find me when you are finished your introductions. Miss Erso and I have more things to attend to.”

 

“Excuse me, my friends. I want to get to know our new guest better, so please excuse us for a few moments.” Brendol tries to grasp her arm, as the norm must be in this  _ civilized _ society, but Jyn sidesteps so he misses at the last second. She grins, wry and clever.  _ Looks like I’m still faster than everyone here. _

 

Except, she has dearly underestimated this Hux’s abilities. She’s so caught up in the afterglow of her snarky move, that she doesn’t realize the nod that he gives to the corner of the room. Soon, she hears the high-pitched scream of a little boy, and the smile is immediately wiped off of his face and she watches a nameless stormtrooper continue to beat and knock around the little boy as surrounding elites continue to chat and socialize with not a worry in the world. 

 

“Stop it,” she hisses, crossing her arms across her chest. “We can get more well-acquainted if you stop beating that little boy without any worthy reason.”

 

The stormtrooper ceases his beating of the little boy as Brendol gives another nod. 

 

“Come with me,” Brendol says, leading the way and walking far away from the crowds. It’s comforting for Jyn to finally leave the throng of high elites. They make her skin itch and her heart beat in an uncomfortable, almost suffocating way. 

 

They finally end their journey at an observation deck where the glass is thick, the night is inky, and the stars burn bright and hot. It would be a beautiful view, if Jyn had been sharing it with other people. 

 

But since it’s a beautiful view, she takes the time to appreciate it. From here, on a celestial planet destroyer, she can see each and every little twinkle in the sky. Some are big, and stand out like giants among ants. Tiny stars, the ones that twinkle intermittently in and out of existence, are the ones that Jyn likes the most. They breathe life into the fixed and stationary universe, and they remind her that sometimes, it’s okay to let yourself go in the darkness, as long as you come back into the light. 

 

Brendol’s watching her, almost as focused on her as she is on the night sky. 

 

“Do you find this beautiful?”

 

He’s expecting a complex answer. Maybe he even thinks her a loose girl who will gush out praise over the night sky and giggle like a little child. No, Jyn reminds herself, he knows all about her and her little activities with the Alliance. So, she keeps her answer as short and pointed as possible. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s a big world,” he says. “We are but tiny little things that are just swept along for the ride. Now, there are choices that we can make to make this journey easier. I, obviously, chose to ally myself with the winning side.”

 

“You’re going to say that the Alliance is the losing side, aren’t you?” Jyn says, turning to finally face him. He’s been staring at her this whole damn time, eyes wide alert and open. Has he even blinked? “Spare yourself from the pain of talking. It might losing, it might be winning: and frankly, I don’t give a damn. I don’t care if I die for a worthless cause. It will all be worth it if I just take down as many of you bastards as possible along the way.”

 

It might be her most fierce and hateful speech yet. Brendol’s eyes were wide as she talked, and they’re wide as she finished. She thought that maybe she had finally succeeded, and that this Empire had finally realized just how dangerous and liable she was. 

 

He just laughed and leaned in even closer; so close that the fine hairs on Jyn’s arms started to prickle and tingle. He sniffed in one singular breath, and Jyn felt like emptying the small contents of her stomach onto the tiled floor. 

 

“We’ll see your views shift, sweetheart,” he said in a way that made Jyn’s stomach curdle even more. “If they don’t, then I look forward to being slain by your hand. Do you break your promises? Are you weak, insecure and just a little kitten who meows instead of roars? I bet you don’t even have claws. The only weapons on that limb body of yours are empty and sweet words that don’t mean a single thing.”

 

She acted fast, mostly out of instinct and the anger that blinded her eyes to tint her world a blood-red. Her fist moved of its own accord, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh was all too satisfying. Brendol’s head snapped back and he stumbled a few steps. 

 

_ Not just a small kitten anymore _ , she thinks smugly while shaking out the tension in her fist. 

 

“Oh, I like your claws  _ very _ much,” Brendol said, rubbing his jaw as he regained his footing. “They’re sharp and fast, just the way I like them. What if I told you that I wanted another taste? What would you do then?”

 

He strokes her jaw with a single finger, suddenly and without warning, and this touch of intimacy makes Jyn freeze in place like a vulnerable child. His cold finger keeps on tracking down the trajectory of her jawline, and he observes her, like she’s nothing but  _ meat _ .

 

“Would you kill me? Would you like the feeling of squeezing all the air out of my lungs? The purple color that my face would turn as I gasped for air would be very pretty indeed. Maybe you’d use a blaster instead, but I find that a tad bit boring. That would be too quick and too painless, but it would look  _ perfect _ . A single shot straight through the head.”

 

Brendol Hux is a much different opponent and enemy that Jyn is not well prepared for. She’d rather fight with fists and weapons that spar with words and phrases. He has the advantage here, and he has all his cards already played out and laid in front of him. 

 

“I wouldn’t kill you,” Jyn says. “All I would have to do is hand you over to the orphans of all the people that you’ve killed. I’m sure they’d be creative and unmerciless: after all, that’s what you like, isn’t it?”

 

It’s a standstill. The room is silent except for their breaths. 

 

“Well, that was a pleasure.” Brendol steps back to straighten his tie and brush off any particles from his suit. “Jyn Erso, you are quite a puzzle indeed. I do look forward to finally untangling and deciphering all of your little mysteries. Now, let’s return back to the party. I’m sure Tarkin will be quite pleased when I tell him about just how acquainted we are now.”

 

She would’ve led the way, just so she wouldn’t be forced to stride anywhere near him, but she remembered not a single thing about their walk. It would be embarrassing if she made any mistakes in front of such a taunting and prodding enemy. 

 

“Shall we?” He holds out an arm, presumably for him to take. 

  
Jyn’s only response is to cross her arms and take two steps to the left, and far away. 


	7. Chapter 7

She’s bored, and that makes her creative. Jyn has managed to fashion a punching bag from a mixture of the fancy clothes from the closet and some hastily tied sheets. It’s nowhere near perfect, but it’s adequate and that will have to make do. She might be in the lap of luxury aboard a starship sailer, but there isn’t another place in the universe that she wouldn’t rather be in.

 

It’s good to be able to break out a sweat. It’s good to be able to violent, aggressive, and unrestrained. With each punch against the fabric, she imagines a different face. Krennic. Nameless troopers who made big mistakes. Tarkin. Brendol Hux. The little boy that got her into this mess in the first place. 

 

The boy. She’s been longing to get to know him, and see who it really was that she saved at the cost of her freedom. 

 

She ceases her punching. It’s time for her to take action, and to stop acting like a little hopeless child. There is always a way out of everything, and the only ticket to freedom is patience. A little luck and prosperity might help when added to the mix. 

 

The door’s locked, she knows that for sure when she lets her sweaty palms grip the handles. It would hurt to kick them down, and she would not doubt attract unwanted attention. The windows are a big no-no, she’s impatient but not suicidal. One little break in the glass would suck her out into the cold, unending grasp of space where she would die cold and lonely. Besides, it’s not if she’s actually strong enough to break virtually indestructible glass. 

 

Time will tell her what to do. For now, she lays exhausted on her bed, both her mind and body reeling from hard use. She doesn’t tell herself to fall asleep, nor did she have the motive to, but it takes her away on gentle wings nonetheless. 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“You good with piloting, Bodhi?”

 

“I’m fine, Cassian,” Bodhi says, shooting one look over his shoulder at Cassian before focusing on the expanse of space laid out in the window. “Get some sleep. You’ve been piloting for an eternity and I’ve just woken up from the best nap of my entire life.”

 

Usually, Cassian would argue. He’d act like a gentleman with the desire to pilot and keep up the strong appearance of leadership. But for now, he’s just too tired to be of any use. Staring out into space with nothing to occupy his mind has led images of Jyn and regrets flood his brain, until he almost felt like a madman grasping at straws and empty ideas. 

 

There’s always a spare cot in storage, so Cassian walks himself down the stairs and grabs it by its well-worn fabric. He ties it to hooks right next to his favorite spot in the whole world, a little window and alcove where it’s just him and him alone. Bodhi’s occupied upstairs, and probably staring off into space with his own regrets. 

 

He swings himself into it, relishing in the feel of weightlessness and comfort that the cot provides. It reminds him of his home planet: warm sandy ground and tropical heats that caused rivulets of sweat and pools of crystal-blue water. 

 

Staring into space is a hassle, and just brings images of green eyes and sly smiles into his head. He’s weak, cowardly and vulnerable in this moment, so he closes his eyes to avoid the empty depth of space. 

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dreaming is nice when it doesn’t require thought. The best dreams of Jyn’s life are the ones where she gets to observe the carefree past: the ones where she can remember the smell of fresh dirt under her nails and the tiny little underground bunker that smelled like family. The nightmares are the ones where ghosts from her past haunt her at every corner. 

 

This one is odd. It’s the beach of Scarif, the scene of many a nightmare since the fateful day of return. But while there should be bomb shells flying through the air and screams and pain galore, all she hears is the gentle lull of the sea. The only thing rustling in the wind are the palm trees that loom far above, tall and imposing. 

 

It’s just her. She sits down on the beach. This time, she has the opportunity to enjoy the scene. Last time, in hindsight, she hadn’t enjoyed it enough. She was too busy trying to complete a suicide mission and please her father one last time. 

 

Warm, tropical, and gentle, it’s everything she’s wanted a vacation to be. Loneliness is what’s stopping her from pure ecstasy. She’d rather die on this beach in someone else’s arms than spend an eternity alone in this empty paradise. 

 

“Jyn?”

 

That voice is too familiar.  _ My mind must’ve created him to fit in this dream _ , Jyn thinks. “Come sit by me, Cassian,” she says. For now, she might as well play along with the dream. It’s not a nightmare, so she should try and make the best of it. He might not be with her in reality, but at least he’s next to her in her dream.

 

“I was sad when you died,” Jyn said, still looking at the ocean and speaking to Cassian as he sat down on the sand beside her. “I thought that if I had come back, you had too. But I woke in that prison cell all alone, and I hated myself for wishing that you were there too. Would you have hated me? If I made you come back from a peaceful death just so you could suffer in reality with me?”

 

“I didn’t wake in a prison cell,” Cassian says, confused. “I woke up in a hospital, with the Alliance. Bodhi came back on some random deserted mountain.”

 

He woke up too. Which meant…

 

“You’re alive!” Jyn tackles him down in a fit of excitement, and they both fall into the sand as she pins him down and stares at him. “You’re alive! You’re actually alive!” She looks at all the lines in his face, trying to contrast them from the faint reminders of her past life. 

 

“Yeah,” Cassian says slowly, “I’m alive. Are you? Or is this a dream?”

 

“No,” Jyn says, standing up a bit so she’s straddling his chest. “You’re lying,” she says, “You’re lying! Cassian is  _ dead _ !” She slaps him once against the cheek, and he lets out an exclaim of shock and hurt. “You’re nothing but a part of my brain! You’re just a memory in my dream!” Another slap, then another. 

 

“Ow! Godammit, Jyn! Stop!” He’s forced to grab her fists when she won’t cease her attack, and to Jyn’s surprise, they’re warm and feel alive. “I’m alive! Listen to me! Right this instant, I’m flying on a starship with Bodhi on the way to find you. I wasn’t lying when I said that I woke up in a hospital with the Alliance.”

 

Jyn’s too embarrassed to look at him, so she settles for standing up and tiredly clasping a hand to her face. “I can’t believe you’re alive,” Jyn murmurs. “All this time, I thought it was just some little doomed piece of hope that I buried far too deep in my heart.”

 

Strong arms encircled her, and soon her ear was cradled against the firmness of Cassian’s chest. In this pleasant dream of hers, where people didn’t leave and everything was as it should be, she found no need to be embarrassed or ashamed. So, she hugged him right back and drew him even closer until there was no room for anything but comfort. 

 

“I missed you,” Cassian said against her hair. “The first thing I saw when I woke up was a flash of your eyes. Not a day goes by where I don’t torture myself and ask those hard questions. You would hate how depressing I’ve become.”

 

“I missed you too,” Jyn said. “I was more scared of being alone than killed by the Empire in that prison cell.”

 

“Wait.” Cassian pushed to an arm’s length. “The Empire? Where exactly are you?”

 

Jyn shrugged up one shoulder. “Just blame it on my tragic luck,” she said. “I guess fate wanted to bring me back to the source of all trouble; the Death Star.” He looks horrified and sickened and is probably imagining all sort of tortures and bodily harm. 

 

“I’m fine,” she said when she saw the look on his face. “They only tortured me for a little while. I didn’t even get  _ that _ banged up.” She tried to use a crooked smile to alleviate that look of pain in his eyes. “I’ve been through worse. Death was quite an adventure.”

 

“We died here, on this exact beach. The same sand, the same scenery.” Cassian points to some far-off island. “Right there. I looked at that for a single second before that shockwave hit. You know what I was thinking?”

 

“What?”

 

“I thought to myself, I  _ promised _ myself that when I survived Scarif, I would come right back here after the war and claim that island all for myself.” He looks wistful, dreaming of a life that could never be. “It would’ve been perfect. A small little hut, and the ocean right outside as my doormat.”

 

That would be a good life. 

 

“Would you stay with me?”

 

Now that was a question that had a hard to find answer. “I don’t know,” Jyn said, “I’ve never really stayed in one place for too long. Always this, and that. The sun would rise on a different planet each morning and set in an entirely different galaxy.”

 

“Stay for me, then,” Cassian said, squeezing her hand. “I never got to ask you before Scarif.”

 

“Ask me what?”

 

“There’s something special about you,” he said. “Everything you do either annoys me straight to hell or makes me sees stars. You’re like some little insect that crawls its way through my veins, nicking arteries of memories and dreams. All my life, I’ve never met someone like you, but it feels like I’ve known you since the beginning of time. That moment in the interrogation room, when I got my first good look at you after busting you from that prison, something switched inside of me.”

 

“I remember that,” Jyn says. “All you did was stand in the corner and look intimidating.”

 

“I hid my feelings behind a mask,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time you’ve been gone.”

 

“Well, stop hiding,” Jyn chides and lays a single palm on his face. “I’m here now, so there’s nothing that you have to regret. Everything works out, don’t you see? We died, and we came back. The Alliance needs you, and that’s what they’ve got.”

 

“I can’t be alright,” Cassian said. Was that a twinkle in his eye, or tears? “I can never be as long as you’re away from me and gone. We’ve known each other for the entirety of a couple days, yet you’ve become my whole life and reason.”

 

“I know.”

 

Eye contact the whole time. He lifts her palm and places the gentlest of all kisses right in the dead center. “I hated you, you know? I wanted to just leave you to rot with those Imperials. Jedha? I wanted to bash your head in when you risked your life for that little girl who probably died anyway. I don’t know when that feeling shifted. Maybe it never did. Maybe I’ve been hating you all this time and I’m just a  _ fool _ for thinking it’s something else. You’ll never understand this feeling inside me, Jyn Erso. Not even in a billion years.”

 

“It’s not just you,” she said, leaning in until those tiny little flecks in his eyes became the size of galaxies. “I hated you to. You were nothing but an insensitive and selfish jerk. I ate guys like you for breakfast, but I never could lay a single hand on you, and I don’t think I ever will.”

 

“We were built for each other,” Cassian says. “All we do is hate, cry, and suffer.”

 

“If that’s what we were built for,” Jyn says, “then we’ll keep on doing it. We’ll hate each other, we’ll attack each other, and we’ll maim ourselves until every inch of us is unrecognizable. It’s morbid, but it’s  _ us _ . We’ll never be alone. So, I’ll ask you one more time. Captain, are you with me?”

 

“All the way,” he whispers, and he finally,  _ finally _ leans in to close that last millimeter between them. 


	8. Chapter 8

Pain is searing, unbearable, and all together too strong for any puny mortal to handle. So is passion. Perhaps they are one and the same, synonyms and whispered couples. 

 

She’s never done it this way before. All those other times, they were fast and frantic, forgotten and fallacies. One face and another. Nothing more than a few seconds that was worth less than the dirt on the musty beds. It would start with regret and end with even more. 

 

This was different. Then again,  _ Cassian _ was different. He had always been that do-gooder, hidden man who lounged in the shadows and spoke out for what was right and glorious. But now, he was aggressive, attacking unmercifully in an almost animalistic nature that she had never seen before. Soon,  _ she _ was the one grasping helplessly at his jacket as he pushed her into the warm sand and small particles of it started to poke around in her already sore gums. The heat, emanating from both of their bodies, was so hot that it almost seemed to burn a hole right through her clothes. She had on a top, pants, jackets and the whole package, but she felt as naked and free as the day she was born. 

 

Was she ashamed? Not at all. She didn’t care if anyone saw them. She wished, with all her heart, that she could be just as brave and unashamed in the real world. The moment she woke up, she knew that it would be back to being Jyn Erso, a criminal on the run who hid and hid and hid. 

 

It was just passion and lust until he crept his strong hand behind her neck and entangled his long fingers into her wispy hair. It was secure, comforting, and enveloped her in a warmth that coiled from the tips of her toes to the nails on her fingers. It was like those warm cups of caf that heated even the coldest soul, or a crackling fireplace beckoning to a wet and tired traveler. What she was feeling had no definition. What Cassian had done to her had no easily-found epiphany.

 

He bit her lip then, (supernovas exploded in her brain) and the iron taste of her blood swirled on and off both of their tongues. 

  
“I hate you,” she growled between breaths. “You’ve done something to me, and I don’t know what.”

 

“I hate you even more,” he growled right back. “You’ve done something to me, and I know  _ exactly  _ what it is.”

 

“Don’t say it,” Jyn said, pulling away and ending the kiss as the mood snapped and burned like the last kindling of a fire. “Don’t you  _ dare _ say those three words, Cassian.” She wasn’t ready to believe them, much less  _ hear _ them. Denial was the only thing that was keeping her standing, at this moment. Snatch away her paradise of oblivion, and she would be left naked and vulnerable in the harshness of reality. 

 

“I say them to myself all the time,” Cassian said, leaning back and placing his elbows on the warm sand. “It doesn’t matter if you never hear them, or even say them back. As long as I myself believe it, then it’s all that matters.”

 

He was still so selfless, after all that had happened. Had she been so blind this whole time? Here she was, thinking about  _ me, me, me, _ and here Cassian was, thinking about  _ Jyn, Jyn, Jyn _ . He always followed his moral direction, he always put others above himself, and it was starting to annoy the hell out of Jyn. No one should have the right to be so pristine and pure. Nature had given him nothing, but he had thought of it as everything. 

 

What a poor, poor, man who was doomed to suffer for  _ all _ of eternity. He could do all the right in the world and it would be repaid with nothing but loss and harshness. 

 

“Whatever makes you happy,” Jyn says. The harshness and severity, aloofness and carelessness of that sentence makes her flinch a few seconds later. She never really was good at handling emotions and feelings. They were fragile like glass, and she was capable of tripping even on flat ground. Cassian probably knew, even  _ expected _ such a response.

 

“I’m just so tired, Jyn,” he said. “Ever since I came back, nothing would actually bring me back to life. I could sleep the whole day and still feel like I belonged to death. Caf did nothing, food did nothing, even friendship did nothing. Everyone can ask if I’m okay, but nobody can know.”

 

She’s been feeling that way too. Word for word; exactly what Cassian had said. It was like a constant ache in her bones, like a creaky gear that would snap and break each time she moved a joint. 

 

“Go to sleep, then,” she says. “At least here, in our dreams, we can rest and pretend like everything's okay.”

 

He clasps her hand in his, and slowly drags her towards him until she’s lying down on the sand right next to him. “Everything here is okay,” he says, “But when the outside world comes crashing down, I don’t think I’ll be able to hang onto this thread of hope. It’s going to kill me, Jyn: reality. I don’t think I’ll be able to escape it.”

 

“We’re all suffering inside,” she whispers. “Some of us just suffer more. Close your eyes, Cassian. You’re so tired.”

 

“I’m so tired,” he whispers back like an echo. “I’m just so tired.” He closes her eyes eventually, and Jyn can see the tendrils of sleep curling around him like a spindly vine. She’ll water the plant with her own love and affection, if only in her sleep and fantasies.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

And just like that, she wakes up again, as sweaty and exhausted as she was when she flopped onto the luxurious sheets, and the makeshift punching bag sits in the corner, limp and unused. How much time as passed?

 

Her stomach growls, but that’s not enough of a clock for her. A glance to the digital one sitting on her bedside table shows that it merely just the evening: she must’ve slept through the afternoon. A tray, covered with food and drinks, sits on the coffee table to remind her that yes, she did a miss a meal and yes, she is hungry. But does she want to eat from the hand of her greatest enemy? No. She’ll starve with her own freedom. 

 

A maid comes in, and Jyn notes that she had probably been waiting for her to wake up, watching from the sidelines. 

 

“I hope you had a good sleep, miss,” she says, bowing her head respectfully to the ground. “I wanted to let you know that Commander Hux sent you an invitation.” She holds out a crisp white envelope in her outstretched hand. 

 

It might as well be covered in fire, and Jyn carefully and slowly takes it out of the maid’s hand. It could be a bomb, threat, bribe: the possibilities race through her head. Each sound of the tears that she makes sounds like the ticking of impending doom. 

 

“ _ Dinner with me.”  _ Those three words, curled in an elegant and timeless font, are all that is written on an otherwise blank and perfectly crisp piece of paper. It’s not even signed. 

 

What an arrogant asshole.

 

“Fine. I’ll play with him game for just a bit.” She starts to take the makeshift wraps off of her sweaty knuckles. “Tell him I’ll come,” she directs this towards the maid. “Make sure he gets the message as impolitely as possible.”

 

The maid seems to smile to herself as she bows to the floor another time and scampers out into the hallway. 

 

Well, she has time to kill before she has to dine with the devil. This time, she won’t let herself be forced into a frilly dress with kohl lining her eyes. She’s going to go to him exactly the way she is: sweaty, dirty, and defiant. 

 

He didn’t specify  _ when _ exactly dinner was. 18:00? 22:00? Jyn’s never really had a constant and reliable meal schedule: she never had the luxury of deciding when and where to eat. Or what to eat. What will she do? Cooped up here like a quaresian bird waiting to be roasted and devoured?

 

The maid is back, a constant presence in her room. Maybe she can help. 

 

“Um,” Jyn starts off hesitantly, “Am I allowed to communicate?”

 

The maid’s eyes flash with terror. She’s probably imagining treason, traitorous deeds, and the firepower of the Resistance. Her tiny hand lands on the round doorknob behind her, and Jyn’s chance of any freedom outside of this tiny little hole seems to dissipate into thin air. 

 

“No, no,” Jyn says, holding up her two hands to steady the maid. “Not to the Resistance! To… to Commander Tarkin or anyone else who has some sort of power.”

 

“I’ll see what I can do, miss,” the little maid says. “I feel confident that a written letter could make its way to my superiors.”

 

“Paper and pens?”

 

“I’ll get those to you immediately.”

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It physically kills Jyn to be polite. Just writing the word  _ please _ makes a bit of bile rise up in the back of her throat. By the end of her suffering, when the top of the pen has been chewed to bits by her nervous teeth, she’s written what she deems an acceptable letter. In it, she’s asked Tarkin for the opportunity to spread her wings out of this little prison. 

 

She had found it hard,  _ very _ hard to word it in a way that wasn’t aggressive or too pleading. If she played this right, it would seem like nothing except the tiniest wish of a harmless hostage. She had let her mind wander while writing, and she dreamed and dreamed about the new opportunities that could be granted if only Tarkin would say yes. 

 

Maybe a chance to go to the fitness center, or to just sit in one of the observatory rooms and count each and every star. Anything, absolutely  _ anything _ that was out of this little room would be a dream come true. 

 

“Thank you,” she tells the maid when she plucks it out of her hand and hurries out the room to deliver it. With any luck, it’ll be in Tarkin’s hand soon, and a response would soon be on the way. 

 

Another maid takes the place of the one that just left, and Jyn can’t stop the little annoyed groan that slips through her throat. The maids aren’t responsible for their labor and schedules; and one might say that they are just as much prisoners as she herself is. Still, this whole day has been a mess with Hux, freedom, and  _ Cassian _ and her mind’s gears are squeaking and cracking.

 

“Commander Hux has asked me to bring you to his quarters for dinner,” the maid said. “Do you need my help getting ready?”

 

“I’m ready to go.”

 

The maid stares at her outfit and the way her bangs stick to her sweat-slicked forehead. The vanity remains untouched. The bathtub is still dry. The dresses in her closet are unwrinkled and untouched. Determination sets into the maid’s eyes. 

 

“I think you look wonderful, miss. Follow me.”

 

Today is just a giant heap of surprises. The maids are no longer just nameless faces, and Jyn is sure that at least one of them might actually be willing to help. Best outcome? She’s out of this hell in a flying spaceship on the way home to her friends. Worst case scenario…. some more torture that she knows she can handle.  

 

She’ll ask the maid later: they’ve arrived. When the door is opened, she already sees him. The table’s set with food, but that’s not what she’s looking at. The back of Brendol Hux, wide, expansive, and so big it seems to fill the whole room, is framed against the inky sky that peers through the window. 

 

“Have a seat.”

 

He doesn’t even turn around. It really,  _ really _ irks Jyn that he thinks her to be such a tiny and unthreatening thing that he feels safe with his back to her. When she sits down, she sees something that she really enjoys.There’s this knife on the table that’s been calling to her, and it’s just the most perfect thing that’s so sharp and pointy. 

 

“Go ahead and try. I would just  _ love _ to see how far you could go.” He turns around and the smile on his face is gentle and subtle. “Today wouldn’t be good, though. Perhaps another time.” The chair across from her becomes occupied. “So. How are you doing?”

 

He seems genuinely concerned and interested, so Jyn will let him know the truth for once. 

 

“I think I’m going to die in that little room your order keeps me trapped in as a hostage.”

 

“So you want to move around a bit more? I’m sure that can be arranged. There is, after all, more empty space in my bedroom.”

 

“I’ll pass,” Jyn says quickly, so quickly that a bit of panic bleeds up through her words, and that moment of weakness allows the enemy across her to smile. “I was thinking more along the lines of personal fitness and perhaps some opportunities to visit the observation decks.”

 

“What makes you think that we’ll just hand over more escape opportunities to you? You should be thankful that we haven’t placed you in prison cell to rot and soil for all of eternity.” He takes a sip of the blood-red wine. “Other prisoners and hostages would surely kill to be in your position.”

 

He’s got her pinned. If she tries to insult the Order by remaining stubborn and unpleased with her “lavish” rooms, she’ll come across as crass, impatient: and the opportunity for freedom will fly out the window. She’ll have to bit her tongue for now, and keep a facade of calmness. White, fluffy clouds suspended above a storm. 

 

“I’m very thankful for my treatment,” she says, “but I would hope that you might grant me the opportunity to spread my wings. I want to do something with my hands,  _ anything _ that might keep me active.”

 

“Our intention was never to make you bored and uncooperative,” he says. “We were hoping, on the contrary, that you might come to see our ideals and accept the fact that we are working for the greater good of not just the galaxy, but the universe.” Seeing her frown, he takes a different path. “I know that you still harbor some resentment towards us, but I think that can be easily fixed. You said that you want to work with your hands? Something active, or something that can help you stay out of that little room?”

 

Jyn nods. Where is he going?

 

“We have a few volunteer options available for you, under heavy surveillance, of course. How would you feel about lending your hands to the medical staff?”

 

“Aren’t you worried that I might end up poisoning every injured ‘trooper under my care?” She tries to sound cocky, but she’s actually weighing her options. The idea of saving and treating her enemies is  _ almost _ unbearable, but anything is better than the room she’s currently housed in. 

 

“We can always train more.”

 

Those five words manage to drive a dagger into Jyn’s heart. She’s reminded then, that the henchmen of her enemies are nothing but single-minded stormtroopers who were tossed away in the garbage when they outlived their usefulness. They don’t even have names: merely numbers, dashes, and alphabetical letters. The way Hux is saying it, tossing those words lightly on his tongue with not a care in the world….

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

Hux’s eyebrows rise up onto his forehead. “That was… much easier than I expected. Now, I’m quite glad that we’ve settled that issue. The question is, how will you repay such a generous act of kindness?”

 

“By treating your injured ‘troopers.” Didn’t they  _ just _ talk about this?

 

“Anyone can treat them. What else are nurses and doctors for? No, I want my payment in a form that only  _ you _ can give me. It has to be something special.” Jyn doesn’t like the way his voice grows low and anticipative. It’s starting to scare her. She came in here with confidence, but it had sunk all the way into the pit of her stomach. 

 

“You want Resistance secrets, don’t you? Plans, details, people?”

 

“Those all come to me soon enough.” He gets up, walks right behind her chair and the tiny hairs on the back of Jyn’s neck start to tingle. “No, I want something else entirely. I want you…”

 

He leans in and the smell of his cologne, a manly and virile thing, floods her senses. It should make a woman swoon, faint, and gasp for air, but Jyn finds herself comparing it to the smell of musky dust and irony blood. Fancy suits are nothing compared to the feel of an old and weathered bomber jacket. 

 

“I want you,” he repeats, breath tickling her ear, “to kiss me.” With those words, she tries to jump away, but his strong hands push her back into the chair. Her heart is beating, jumping, leaping, trying to claw its way out of her chest. 

 

“No, not on the mouth; not yet. It’s simple Jyn, really. A tiny little peck right on the cheek.” His finger taps the spot placed high on his chiseled cheekbones. “Just one is all I need. Can you do that, Jyn? Do such a  _ tiny _ little task for a huge opportunity of freedom?”

 

“That’ll never happen, lover boy,” she says, “so dream on all you want.”

 

“You seem so determined to play me as a monster, Jyn,” he said. “If that’s what you want so badly, I’ll have to indulge in your fantasy. Take a look here.” He pulled out a thin, electronic holo-pad from the inside of his impeccably ironed suit. 

 

“That boy you’ve taken such a liking to. His name is Pieto, is it not?” The boy shows up on the holopad, shaking and shivering on a cold bunk shelf with his shaggy-haired head turned down towards the floor. “Hm,” Brendol hums in a sarcastic manner, “it doesn’t look like he’s in the best of conditions. I can fix that, you know. Or, I can play the monster and make his life even worse. You see, we caught him on a far off planet with a grenade in his hand that was aimed right for the underbelly of a trooper vehicle. I’m sure our own troops would like to exact their own form of revenge.”

 

“I’m still not kissing you.”

 

“I know. I apologize for trying to rush our relationship,” he says, leaving Jyn to wonder  _ what relationship _ even existed. “I’ll take it slow, for your sake. Dinner with me tonight, and invitations to some of the finest social gatherings in the galaxy is all I expect of you.”

 

“Expect? Are you under the impression that I owe you something?” Jyn can’t  _ believe _ that Hux even has the audacity to think in such a way.

 

“Pieto will be transferred to an actual and suitable room to live in,” Hux said. “Bathroom, bedroom, all the amenities. Shall we keep that arrangement? Or do you think that a prison cell is the best option for his stay with us?”

 

_ It’s just dinner and another fancy party _ , Jyn thinks.  _ I can survive that _ . “You’ve got yourself a deal,” she says. “Let’s hurry up and finish this end of it so I can back to being at peace.”

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dinner wasn’t the ordeal that she had thought it to be. By the end of it she had a full belly, and an empty wine glass. Too many wine glasses, if she must be honest. They just kept emptying and filling, and by the end of the dinner her eyelids are heavy and her mouth and tongue are loose. 

 

When she wakes tomorrow, she will realize that Hux now knows her favorite color (green), the color of her mother’s hair (hazelnut brown), and the background story of how exactly she got the jagged scar that hugs the broadside of her hip (climbing accident as a child). Personal information that even the oldest of friends had never known.

 

Something, or more likely someone starts to carry her in their strong arms, rocking her back and forth like the gentle lull of a cradle. 

 

“Thank the heavens you’re here, Cassian,” she finds herself murmuring as darkness starts to blur her edges. She snuggles closer to his chest. “I was starting to think I was going to die in this place. I thought you were never going to find me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pieto is derived from Pieta, the latin word for "pity"


End file.
